No Jacuzzi
by everyone'ssister
Summary: Tag for 11.17 "You really thought I wouldn't find out, Dean?"
Tag for 11.17 "You really thought I wouldn't find out, Dean?"

NO JACUZZI

Sam should have been too high on painkillers to notice how Dean seemed to be a little uncomfortable in his own skin all the way home. But he wasn't. And Dean was making him nervous too. Understandably Dean had had a hellish last twelve hours. Probably more so than Sam's even though the younger Winchester had been shot.

Sam knew the pain his brother had felt, knew how it was all encompassing, soul shattering, heart stopping shock, knew how Dean's whole world had come to a screaming halt. Knew the way his heart had filled and burst and the loneliness had settled like a smothering blanket. Dean had been all alone in the woods, on the hunt...in this world.

Sam had been shocked, and VERY impressed when he'd realized Dean had left him out in the woods in order to save the couple. He honestly didn't feel like either of them would have that presence of mind having lost the other. But he couldn't judge Dean by himself, half the time his brother proved to be the better and stronger of their brotherhood.

Sam knew if it had been him, he probably would have gone on a killing spree for those werewolves after holding Dean a while and crying over him in a psychotic break down. That was what sent up all the warning flags for Sam. Dean was strong, but come on, Sam knew his brother. He knew Dean may have managed to leave him behind and get those innocent people to help, but not do anything brash? That just wasn't in the cards, would never be in the cards. So he had to start digging.

He looks over to Dean sitting in the driver's seat, he's nervously tapping the fingers of one hand to the beat on the steering wheel, and with the other scratching his neck and wrist in something of a frenzy. He is going to give Sam a psychotic break down too if he doesn't stop.

"Dean, God, your driving me crazy." He mumbles from where his head is laying against the impala's window.

Dean immediately turns down the music and stills himself. His left leg takes up right where he left off beginning to bounce up and down nervously. Sam sighs.

"What's with you?" He asks, looking at him from under heavy lids.

"You're not the only one who got pills," Dean says, but then seems to realize what he's said and how it sounded and backpedals. "Uh, you know for the ribs, doc said I had a few busted ribs."

Sam chuckles, "What did she give you? You're like, full on high?"

"I'm just kinda buzzy, whatever it is, it's not like being high. Just like being full of energy while everything else aches."

...

It wasn't that Dean thought Sam wouldn't find out about his over dosing, it was just that while Sam was recovering from a freshly stitched up gun shot wound it didn't seem like the best time to start up what was going to be a record breaking fight. It wasn't even that Dean really wanted to hide it. He wasn't ashamed of it, he'd do it again in a heartbeat, but Sam wouldn't be of the same mind. In fact, Sam was going to flip. Like full 360 flip.

Now sitting in the car almost home, he's buzzing with a hot, itchy energy under his skin. His head and stomach muscles hurt like a bitch, his ribs are hell, and the handful of falls he suffered hadn't helped with anything, or the fact that Corbin had tried to finish his poorly done job on Sam on him!

Everything aches, and the fact that everything's still swimming a bit, and the way he's on fire isn't helping in the least. He doesn't know what he expected from overdosing and surviving, but this was crap. He guesses after dying and coming back your body was probably zapped of most of its resources.

Speaking of which, Sam needs to get home and get in his bed.

Dean pulls up in front of the bunker and uncranks Baby. Sam sighs deep, and unfolds his long body out of the impala. Dean grabs their bags. He's about ready to fall down the spiral staircase down into the bunker just has as long as someone shuts the door behind them.

Dean decides a trip down the stairs head first probably wouldn't very conducive to helping Sam get to bed, so he decides to take the long way down...walk. Sam's knuckles are white on the rail, Dean's hand finds his arm, holding on tight. Think a trip down the stairs would hurt Dean? He hates to think about what it might do to Sam and his 'professional grade' stitches, which by the way, had been a dirty slur to his own VERY professional work.

They make it to ground level uneventfully. Even though Sam is white and sweating, but that's to be expected. They make their way straight to his room, Dean flipping the light on and placing bags on the floor, Sam huffing over to the bed, toeing off his boots and feeling like Hercules for having made it back home alive, to his bed.

"Food, or sleep first?" Dean asks from the bathroom where he's getting Sam a cup of water to wash his pills down with.

"Sleep," Sam grunts where he's scooting backwards on his bed towards the pillows, having already having shucked off his shirts and jeans. "Hand me my sweats, won't ya?" He says to Dean as he comes out of the bathroom, pointing to his dresser where his night clothes sit folded.

"Ew, dude. Not even a shower?" Dean asks, face morphed into a grimace.

"You going to give me a sponge bath, mom?" Sam snarks back, slipping on the sweat pants with as little movement as possible, which he knows has to be a humorous sight.

Dean rolls his eyes and grabs the pill bottles out of Sam's jacket pocket. He counts out one of each and drops them in Sam's outstretched hand, and hands him the water. Sam, leaning on one elbow, tosses back the pills followed by some water.

"Alright there ya go," Dean says, as Sam lays back on his pillow, and Dean tosses him the corner of his blanket so he can pull it up over himself. "You sure you don't want another pillow, might be good to protect that 'professional stitch job'."

Sam smirks, "Aw, did I hurt you fweeelings?"

"Shut up," Dean grumbles, placing the water on Sam's bedside table.

"Dude, I don't look like Frankenstein for once!" Sam laughs.

Dean gives him a very deliberate view of just his middle finger.

"Whatever," he says, waving Sam off, "I've saved your ass from bleeding out many a time."

Sam snorts a laugh, "Yeah, by giving me stitches as long as my fingers."

"Imma give you some stitches to whine about, sewing your lips together." Dean threatens, pushing Sam's boots out of the middle of the walk way so Sam won't trip on them if he has to use the bathroom at some point.

"You wouldn't," Sam whines back, giving him an infinitely sweet face.

"Don't tempt me," is all he gets out of his older brother.

Dean turns off the lights and is about to walk out when Sam stops him.

"What? I don't get a lullaby?" He asks, looking genuinely hurt.

"Bite me, Sam," Dean says, stopping right outside the door. "That jacuzzi and disco ball is sounding better and better all the time."

"Bite me, Dean, what did you really do?" Sam decides to give him one more chance to fess up.

Dean freezes knowing Sam means, what-crazy-ass-thing-did-you-do-when-you-thought-your-little-brother-was-dead?

"Nothing Sam," he shrugs, "Cheapest jacuzzi on the market was four hundred, I only had two hundred and thirty on hand so..."

"Jerk."

"Bitch..." Dean turns on his heel and walks away. "Have a good sleep, Sammy," echoes down the halls.

...

Even though Dean felt like crap (not deathly), he figures one of them should be responsible enough to shower after both of them came back from the dead. So he peels off his clothes, and steps into his shower.

Hot water is a gift from God as he lets it run over his sweat sticky, and dirt grimy skin. The tips of his fingers are rubbing the grains of dirt from his scalp. He takes in enough hot water in his mouth to wash it out and help get rid of that acidy, artificial taste that came from the pills and the white foam he'd regurgitated. He spits the foul tasting water out onto the shower floor, and watches it wash away down the drain as he rinses out his mouth again, and again, coughing a little.

He revels in the feeling of scrubbing the last forty eight hours off of him. Like a disgusting second skin he doesn't want, he hopes he never has to feel that way again. He turns the water off, stands breathing deep in the steam for a few moments, the rigorously dries himself with his towel.

He pulls on his sweats and a t-shirt and then stands in front of the sink, looking into the mirror as he gurgles mouth wash and pulls out his floss. He doesn't do it as often as he should, but he can't get his mouth clean enough tonight. After that, he thoroughly brushes his teeth, smacking his lips at the pleasantly burning, minty fresh taste.

He'll be able to sleep now. In fact, he hasn't been this at peace since he found out Cas had let Lucifer in. He just feels like he fulfilled his purpose in the past two days like he hasn't in a while, fells like he's done right by Sam, by the innocent victims, by those evil sons of bitches, he and Sam had ended them.

(Dean never thought about whether he did right by himself or not, it wasn't the way he was raised, wasn't the way he thought or felt. His mind just didn't go there.)

He turns off the bathroom light and pads across his room and climbs into his bed. Feeling warm and safe and content under his blankets. He turns towards the edge of his bed on his side, a hand slipping up next to his face. Eyes slipping closed, all was well, because Sam was well. He doesn't think how he almost killed himself to talk to someone. He doesn't think how it didn't even phase him, doesn't think how he doesn't mind at all.

...

Sam tries, he honestly does, to leave well enough alone. But he just can't. He can't sleep, even with the painkillers singing in his veins. He can hear Dean's shower running down the hall, can hear him coughing a little, no surprise with cracked ribs and having to have your heart restarted. Sam's hands fist where he lays looking at his ceiling. Dean Winchester.

The thorn in his side. The pain in his ass.

He grits his teeth as he sits up. All the way home he hadn't allowed himself to think about it, but now the more he lays here, listening to his brother get ready for bed, the angrier and more worked up he gets. He honestly doesn't know what he expected. Maybe it just never gets easier. They'd been through this so many times, maybe it just never gets easier, in fact, this time around seemed like the worst.

Maybe the older they got, the more they learned to love each other, the harder it got to let each other go, the more it hurt to let each other make sacrifices for one another. Sam doesn't know. But he heaves himself up and and takes himself out of his room and down the hall to his brother's door.

Dean had left Sam's door open when he'd gone to get in the shower, and he'd left his own door open too. Sam smiles fondly, of course it was so he could hear if Sam needed him. Even though Dean was near about exhausted to death too. The low lighting from the hall leaks into Dean's room and casts a section of light the size of the door into the dark room.

Dean lays curled up on his side, an arm up by his head. Sam knows this is Dean's position for helping with pain. His brother probably ached terribly from the seizures, and falling all over the place. His very insides were probably shredded up, if Sam wasn't shot, he wouldn't even attempt to imagine the pain.

Dean was one stupid son of bitch. Sam had established that a long time ago, though sometimes Dean just drove the fact home more. But as he stands looking down at his brother a tsunami wave of love washes over him for his older brother. And that's where the surge of anger comes from too. And it's really not at Dean just...it was so unfair. It was so wrong that Dean thought so little of himself.

Sam walks in and sits on the edge of Dean's bed, fingers drifting across the bandage hiding his stitches.

"You really thought I wouldn't find out, Dean?" He asks softly, turning to gaze down to his brother.

...

Dean feels his bed dip down as Sam sits. He lazily opens hhis eyes, taking in the silhouette of his brother sitting on his bed beside him. Sam looks down and away for a moment, and Dean is opening his mouth to ask him what's the matter when he speaks.

"You really thought I wouldn't find out, Dean?" He says softly, eyes finally drifting down to his brother's face. Dean meets his gaze dead on.

"You really think a doctor would let a suicidal, crazy person go home without telling someone?"

Figures Dean couldn't count on Doctor/patient discretion rules, no other normal things applied to him either.

"I'm not suicidal or crazy," he mumbles. And Sam gives a dry laugh, shrugging hopelessly.

"No, you were just ODing for the fun of it, of course, why didn't I think of that?"

Dean gives him a peeved look.

"Cause you knew I was alive, remember Dean? So what the hell were you doing ODing?"

"Sam, I needed to talk to Billie." He says, holding out a hand placatingly.

Sam scoffs, "Yeah, that was totally smart, killing yourself so you can talk to the reaper who swears the next time we die, she's throwing us into something called the freaking, 'empty'!" He looks away from Dean, shaking his head and taking deep breaths through his nose to calm himself.

"Lame assiest name ever." Dean grumbles.

Sam agrees, but not the point here.

"So you needed to talk to Billie? Huh. Was that also because you knew I was still alive? What kind of stupid deal were you trying to work, Dean, let me guess, your life for my life all over again?"

"Sam, I had it all under control," he says, trying to play it down. "The doc was right there, she brought me back."

"Oh no," Sam says, looking down at him and pointing his finger at him, Dean feels like a very small child at the end of the teacher's stick. "I got the whole thing right from the doc, you were gone Dean. G. O. N. E."

"Yes, okay," Dean says exasperatedly, scooting up to lean against his head board, "You don't have to spell it out for me." Literally. "Remember, I was the one who talked to scary ass Billie the Reaper who wants to toss us into the empty!"

"So you did see her?l" Sam looks at him dumbfounded. "I never saw her, Dean. Not once. Which means you were a lot closer to being dead then me. SHE CAME FOR YOU, you were dead. Period. If that doctor hadn't jump started you, I would have lost you...forever."

Dean just looks away. Sam thinks, good, he's listening to me, that got his attention.

"And she wouldn't make a deal with you, would she? She won't, she'll never make a deal Dean. So you killed yourself for nothing. Cause I wasn't dead, and you got no deal." Sam looks at him flatly, fully expecting his brother to acknowledge how stupid what he did actually was.

Instead Dean shrugs, "I would have had to try sooner or later, Sammy."

Sam closes his eyes, and pushes his fingers into them. What was he going to do with Dean?

"So what?"he asks tiredly, "I die and you what, try to save me and if you can't, you off yourself?"

Dean shrugs, sighing, "Maybe not that quick, maybe not that order, but yeah.

"Sammy," he whispers, sitting up and putting his hand on Sam's arm, "I'm no good without you." He says softly.

He pushes Sam's bangs back and tilts his head to one side, taking in the way Sam's eyes are shining wetly. "Been down that road before, Sammy. Don't want to go there again, ever."

Sam shakes his head wordlessly.

"Hey," Dean says softly, "We're good, we're alright, all's well that ends well."

"It's not okay that you think your not worth anything, Dean!" Sam bursts out.

Dean chuckles softly, "It's not that I think I'm not worth anything, its just I know, without you I'm not worth anything."

Sam opens his mouth, but Dean stops him.

"Sammy, I wouldn't be doing this without you, I won't do it without you. Without hunting, I'm no good to this world anymore. I'm much better following you wherever it is we're going to be spending our eternities."

Sam just shakes his head.

Dean bends his head down, trying to catch his little brother's eyes, "Let me ask you this Sammy, if it had been me, what would you have done?"

That was the last straw for Sam. He was tired and hurting, and he couldn't fathom how his big brother, his hero, his only parent, thought he was worth absolutely nothing, in fact, only felt like he was worth something when he was with Sam. Tears were slowly welling up in his eyes and dripping down his face.

He's barely registered the fact that he's crying before Dean's pulling him in, and Sam's hiding his face in the juncture between his big brother's neck and shoulder. Sam just wants to hide there from the ugly truth. This is the one place he feels truly safe, and Dean won't even be bothered to fight for himself. It breaks his heart in whole new ways.

Dean's fingers find their way in his hair soothing against his scalp, his other hand lands heavy and warm on his back.

"Hey, what's this?" He asks softly, Sam can hear the fond smile, hiding the fear and the worry Dean feels too. "You wouldn't have got a jacuzzi?"

Sam fingers tighten a little in Dean's t-shirt. "No jacuzzi," he mumbles against Dean. Heaving in big, sobbing (trying to be calming) breaths of Dean-scented air.

"Okay then, you big girl," Dean says into his hair. "No jacuzzi for either of us then. Not just yet anyways."

the end.

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